Last night, I had a hankering for a delicious dinner cheesesteak from Waffle House. Initially, I wanted pasta, then poutine but I definitely wanted cheesesteak. It was pretty late so the little kids were asleep. I told the Astronaut & the Princess to put their shoes on and come with me.
We got to my favorite Waffle House and my favorite cook was working so I was elated. As we selected our seat, both the cook and server eyed me suspiciously.
"You sure you don't want to sit at the low bar?" asked the concerned cook, as I lowered myself into to the booth.
"No," I answered. "It's fine." I turned to the kids. "I think this is my last time in a booth, ya'll."
We ordered and ate, enjoying our unique brand of humor until Lil Fish tapped my bladder as if to remind me I wasn't entitled to uninterrupted time with my 1st and 2nd born. As I went to get up, I noticed that the frisky fetus had shifted slightly and I, as a result, was firmly wedged between the table and chair.
I tried to shift, to no avail. Additionally, the booths in Waffle House are permanently bolted down. A noticed and asked if I needed help. P simply snickered.
I'll spare you the details but A slid me out without me on the floor and I had to sit sideways for the rest of the meal.
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